


Firewall

by Kerkerian



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Aftermath, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e08 Ball of Fire, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian/pseuds/Kerkerian
Summary: Pain is in the mind, according to Patrick Jane. When one's defences are down, however, it's rather the emotions which can bring a man to his knees...
Relationships: Patrick Jane & Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 11
Kudos: 142





	Firewall

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "The Mentalist".

In the controlled chaos that is the aftermath, Jane's got an urgent instinct to slink away and hide. He craves a cup of tea and the kind of silence he gets in the office after hours, but instead, he's being kept hostage once more, in an ambulance at that.

“Can I please go now?” he asks the EMT who's currently shining a light into his eyes, which is extremely annoying and unnecessary, because he's fine. Well, he'll get there, as soon as he's free to go and do as he pleases. The paramedics however have different ideas, which is why he finds himself in a hospital some time later, wearing one of those ridiculous gowns and being hooked up to a heart monitor.

The doctor who comes in to talk to him just as the nurse is finishing up, Rigby in tow, doesn't seem in the least impressed by Jane's repeated assurances that he's well enough to go home: “I'm Doctor Carlisle. From what I gather, you've been subject to repeated electrical shocks over a period of several hours,” he says, looking at Jane's chart. “Some of those were administered close to your heart, judging by the slight burn marks, and they're currently causing palpitations.”

“Maybe,” Jane begins, “but-”

Folding his arms in front of his chest, Rigby audibly clears his throat.

“Which is why we'll keep you here for observation,” the doctor continues, unfazed by the patient's objections. “We'll also monitor your neurocognitive function.” He finally looks up. “Do you have any questions?”

“I don't need to stay,” Jane says, trying to make it sound as though he isn't in fact a little breathless, “I'm perfectly fine.”

“You couldn't even _stand_ earlier,” Rigby says. “Much less walk!”

“Et tu, Brute,” Jane mutters.

Doctor Carlisle nods: “Possible aftereffects can include long-term muscular discomfort and pain, fatigue, headache, inadequate balance and coordination as well as problems with peripheral nerve conduction and sensation. Believe me, you'll be better off here for a while.”

Jane looks mutinous: “How long is a while?”

“At least overnight. We'll reassess the situation tomorrow.”

“Great. There's never any decent tea to be had in a hospital.” His tone is belligerent, but as he leans his head back against the pillow, he suddenly seems defeated. Rigby turns towards him once the doctor's left: “Anything I can get you?”

“I'll give you fifty bucks for your jacket and another fifty if you distract the nurses.”

“Not happening,” Rigby says, regarding Jane with indulgent sympathy: “No offense, man, but you look like shit. Just get some rest, okay? They'll probably let you go in the morning.”

Jane huffs: “I thought we're better friends than that,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

Rigby rolls his eyes: “I'll go and get some coffee. You sure I can't get you anything?”

“No thanks.”

“'kay. You better still be here when I'll get back.”

Jane listens to his colleague's footsteps as he walks away and considers getting up and giving it a go, but the sad truth is that he knows he wouldn't even make it to the door. His entire body is aching and still shaky from the electric current; Rachel meant business, after all. At one point, his legs simply gave out under him; it was humiliating to be so weak, but at least he didn't lose control over his bladder, or worse.

The events of the day are still reeling around in his mind, rendering him unable to distract himself, and he is pretty certain that it's got nothing to do with his neurocognitive function being compromised. Having been at the mercy of someone like that on the other hand is bound to leave its mark, after all, and it rankles that he hasn't been able to stop Rachel by himself. He is just glad that Lisbon has gotten out unharmed.

He tries not to think of her covered in blood, focuses on the sounds around him; a hospital ward is never quiet. Every now and then, a tremor runs through his body. _Aftereffects_ , the doctor called it. _Repercussions_ , Jane thinks wearily. _Everything we do has its consequences_.

Another memory invades his mind, unexpected and unbidden: a small hand in his, a voice he hasn't heard in years. Usually, he's gotten very adept at shutting those out, therefore it catches him by surprise. Maybe it's because of the events of the day, maybe he's slipping- before he can stop himself, he hears his own voice, gravelly and soft and full of longing: “Charlotte.”

He hasn't used his daughter's name for so long, and yet- speaking it feels as familiar as if he never stopped doing so. As if she were still there. He wants to open his eyes, stop deluding himself- she won't be there just because he wants it so much it's making his heart ache, but for a long, breathless moment he finds that he can't. It'd be like losing her all over again. So he gives in to the feeling of weakness and despair instead, saying the name again and again until his voice breaks. He cries silently, eyes closed, and he doesn't even stop when there's a change, when he feels another hand, a perfectly real, warm hand that carefully takes his own and holds it tightly and patiently.

“It's okay,” Lisbon's voice says calmly and very gently. “Let it all out, Patrick. It's okay.”

Usually, it's he who's doing the talking, steadily and insistently, when he wants people to do something. This here is different though. There's no hidden pressure, only affection and a smidgen of concern, and when Jane finally calms down after a while, he doesn't even feel embarrassed, he's just glad that Lisbon's there. She regards him seriously, but her expression softens when he meets her gaze: “Hey.”

He blinks because his eyes are burning now, and he wipes his free hand over his face: “Sorry you had to see that.”

The reply is a faint smile: “I'm not.”

“Why?” Jane asks softly.

“Because it'd make me a rather pathetic friend if I was.”

“True.” He doesn't smile, which is a bit disconcerting, because this is so very different from his usual demeanour. Lisbon isn't sure what exactly's brought this on, but she's aware how much of a show Jane is putting on most of the time; maybe it's all been a little much lately. She's always been wondering how he does it at all, dealing with their daily business when every single dead body has got to be reminding him of his own tragedy. But then again, she'll probably never understand his way of thinking.

Now however, it's simple. He needs someone to have his back even now, after the fact.

“Go to sleep, Jane,” she therefore says, squeezing his hand. “I've got you.”

He regards her for a while: “You do, don't you,” he eventually mutters, still not smiling, but not sounding so forlorn anymore.

With a barely audible sigh, he closes his eyes, comfortably aware of Lisbon's presence, and then the most extraordinary thing happens: without any further ado, he falls asleep.

Lisbon doesn't let go of his hand for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm not a Native Speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes!


End file.
